Monk and The Bovinian Rhapsody, Chapter 1
by Tedmonds
Summary: Monk is called off of vacation to solve a suspicious murder at a Scottish prison.
1. Chapter 1

Running head: MONK BOVINIAN RHAPSODY 7

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Thomas Edmonds

ENGL-211G

Rachael Krygsman

October 23, 2018

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Prisoners shuffle down the corridor leading from their cells to the outer courtyard where they are allowed an hour of exercise. "Eyes forward, mouths shut" the escorting guards remind them, sometimes with a little physical reinforcement. Dyce, a Scottish castle turned adult prison work camp now houses approximately 300 first time and repeat offenders. One such offender is Alby Murkoff, a petty thief who escalated to bigger and more extravagant heists. Alby used his baby face and diminutive stature to his advantage. He once dressed up like a kid on a field trip to rob the National Museum of Scotland. He stole three medieval coins (dated 1555, 1601, and 1604) from the Kingdom of the Scots gallery. When the alarms triggered, Alby walked out with a group of 4th graders during the evacuation. Flustered teachers and chaperones hurried children, Alby included, onto buses. Alby rode right out of the crime scene undetected, smiling through the window in the back of the bus as it drove away.

Alby did not steal for the lucrative monetary benefits. He was a trust fund baby with investments he didn't even know about, set up by his now deceased parents. He just went to the bank, made large withdrawals, and the money was ALWAYS there, in abundance. He let the accountants worry about the dirty details and book balancing. But instead, Alby stole for the attention. Being the child of corporate elites, he couldn't earn mommy's and daddy's affection. "Earn." That about sums it up. If it didn't bring in a profit, his parents had little to no use for it. Maybe if Alby wrapped himself in ticker tape, they would notice him hovering yearningly at their feet as they sat in their home office on the phone making multimillion-dollar deals before breakfast was served. How ironic they would even name him Alby, derived from Albion Venture Capital Trust, the leading investment company listed on the London Stock Exchange. Especially since they often opted out of quality time with sweet Alby in exchange for social drinks with the stock market's "Who's Who." Additionally, being shorter than everyone else in his grade, and sometimes the preceding grade, he was often overlooked or completely ignored by his classmates. He was never picked to be on the intramural sports team. His dwarfish size did not translate to great athleticism.

Once outside, Alby shields his eyes from the morning sun, a light he's not accustomed to after 20 hours spent within the castle walls lit with only primitive fluorescent bulbs and portable rechargeable lanterns where wiring was impermissible. He mosies his way to his usual spot along the fence line all the while mussing the thick, blond tuft of curly hair on his head as the other inmates make their way to the basketball courts and soccer fields. Alby knew he wouldn't be asked to join. He just stood there conspicuously inconspicuous.

Alby looks upward towards the watchtower where Jim Leer is getting into position. Each inmate is assigned a job at the work camp: librarian, cook, laundry detail, cattle-hand, gardener, etc. Jim was appointed "town crier" because of his loud, booming voice. Jim was incarcerated for ID theft. He was a street performer, mesmerizing passer-byers with his effortlessly powerful singing, belting out sounds that matched his 6'5" frame. While audiences gathered around, his cohorts unscrupulously stole credit card information via cleverly concealed RF ID scanners. After the people dispersed, Jim and his buddies went on shopping sprees, mainly buying priceless memorabilia from their favorite 80's rock bands. Their capers were all compromised because of Jim's big ego who would sing of his escapades on YouTube videos that went viral, especially within the law enforcement circles.

Once in place, Jim turns east to the basin mountains which helps reverberate his message throughout the camp. "Today's lunch will be chili con carne", Jim announces. "Chili con carne?", the inmates balked. "What is chili con carne?" They were used to traditional Scottish "scan", the slang word for meal, being served on a daily basis. Meals such as neep and tatties (turnips and potatoes), bangers and mash (potatoes made with lots of butter and milk and sausages) and Haggis. Oh Haggis, the national dish of Scotland. Made from sheep's liver, lungs, and heart, minced with spices, salt, onions, and oats cooked inside the sheep's own stomach. The smell of it cooking would make any of these hardened criminals, long for the days as a child watching anxiously as their maw prepare it for the family. These dishes would have to be put on hold since the former prison chef just recently fell ill. "Ill" was the mild term the warden would use to describe less than treatable conditions, such as getting shanked in the shower. In the meantime, the role of chef would fall upon Felipe Matamoros, a Spanish immigrant spending time as a "guest of the prison" for overstaying a student VISA. Scottish courts became increasingly creative in their sentencing of non-violent criminals. Felipe was transferred to Dyce to serve out his punishment while awaiting a follow-up hearing. That was two years ago. Unfortunately, Felipe only knew how to cook two dishes, chili and chili con carne. In addition to making the announcements, Jim would also serve as prison entertainment (No, not that type of entertainment. It's not that kind of fanfic). He used his background in street performance to put on shows for the camp. However, Jim would only sing top hits from the 1980s, the era when the rock band Queen topped the charts. He knew all the Queen cover songs; he had them all down, Save Me, I Want It All, Under Pressure, Another One Bites the Dust, and I Want to Break Free (for some reason, a work camp favorite).

When the inmates' hour of exercise and entertainment were up, then it was off to their assigned jobs for 3 hours of labor. Alby worked in the stables, primarily shoveling cow manure; collecting it to be dried out and used as cheap fuel for the furnaces. Once the stables were cleaned, Alby would assist with milking the cows (Cow's milk is what made the bangers and mash such a hit at dinner time.) On occasion, he would also help the local veterinarian tend to the expecting mothers. On this day, Alby skips out on the shoveling and heads straight for the stalls where the pregnant cows were kept. He walks down the middle row ignoring the other cows, some grazing on hay, some sleeping, some peering through the fence to see who had come to pay them a visit. Alby is not interested in the other cows. He is only there to see Astrid. Astrid, a Scandinavian name that means divine strength, was a 10-year-old cow that had bore many a calf at the workcamp. Some of the calves were raised to give milk, some were sold at auction and the income used to fund the prison and some were used for meat (you have to get the meat for sausage from somewhere for your bangers and mash). Alby kneels at the entrance of her stall and reaches in his hand to pet Astrid. Astrid raises her head, recognizing Alby from his many, many, many visits over the last nine months. He looks her over noting how much bigger she had gotten since he last saw her. To Alby, she was a beautiful creature. He knows this is the last time she'll give birth. Alby strokes the top of Astrid's head and says, "One day I'll deliver you, and you'll deliver me."

"Get on the boat, Monk!', Sharona persists as the line of passengers waiting to board the ship grows increasingly longer behind them. Monk looks down over the railing at the gap between the dock and the boat. "But I can't swim", Monk rebuts. "That's why they conveniently provided you a boat, so you don't have to swim", Sharona annoyedly remarks. Monk takes one small step on the gangplank and quickly back off again, on again, off again. The passengers with their personal effects begin to look at one another in bewilderment. Some set their bags down realizing this may take a while. Light murmuring turns to louder complaints as one older gentlemen shouts, "I'm on this cruise for my 80th birthday. I don't want to be still standing in this line on my 81st."

"Has anyone ever fallen overboard on one of these trips?" Monk asks. "No" huffs Sharona, "but some have probably been pushed off" she mutters under her breath. "What?" "Nothing Monk. Let's just get on the ship." "Are there enough life vests for everyone?", Monk asks the cruise director as he greets oncoming passengers. "You know, just in case." Monk makes a gesture with her hand to signify the boat capsizing and sinking. "Don't you worry, ma'am. We have plenty of life jackets, plus extra. You know, just in case", passively mocking Monk. Monk takes a step as if to board the ship and then turns back sharply to the director. "Could I have one of those extra vests? Since you do have extras." Sharona hurries Monk across the gangplank on board the Norwegian cruise liner that is setting sail for a 7-day trip to Scotland. This is the first vacation Detective Audreanna Monk has taken in years. Detective Monk, more accurately "former" detective Monk, served on the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) until her husband was murdered. After that fateful day, she would never be the same. Compulsive behaviors that once made her such an insightful and intuitive detective have become debilitating. Fear overtook her, making her unsuited for her job on the force. She now serves as a private consultant for the SFPD on special cases that require her unique perspective. Sharona Fleming, her nurse/assistant, is with her to help make sure Monk relaxes, a task easier said than done.

Newly added LEDs atop the outer castle walls flash signaling approaching visitors, a feature that would have been extremely useful to the Scottish king before Great Britain's invasion in the 17th century. The white van slows as it nears the west gate. The driver hands the guard their credentials who scrutinize them before peeking his head inside the cab to ensure there was but the single occupant driver. "Come on through," he says as he waves the vehicle on. Once inside, Katherine Headridge, the local cattle veterinarian, pulls into the visitor parking area and steps out of her medical van. She looks back in time to see the fortified gates close. She thinks to herself, "Only one way in, only one way out." She's met by the prison warden, Max Brewster, who got this dismal assignment by trying to kiss up to his superiors (after kissing, and so much more, several of his superior's wives.


	2. with Chapter 2

Running head: MONK BOVINIAN RHAPSODY 10

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Thomas Edmonds

ENGL-211G

Rachael Krygsman

November 1, 2018

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Prisoners shuffle down the corridor leading from their cells to the outer courtyard where they are allowed an hour of exercise. "Eyes forward, mouths shut" the escorting guards remind them, sometimes with a little physical reinforcement. Dyce, a Scottish castle turned adult prison work camp now houses approximately 300 first time and repeat offenders. One such offender is Alby Murkoff, a petty thief who escalated to bigger and more extravagant heists. Alby used his baby face and diminutive stature to his advantage. He once dressed up like a kid on a field trip to rob the National Museum of Scotland. He stole three medieval coins (dated 1555, 1601, and 1604) from the Kingdom of the Scots gallery. When the alarms triggered, Alby walked out with a group of 4th graders during the evacuation. Flustered teachers and chaperones hurried children, Alby included, onto buses. Alby rode right out of the crime scene undetected, smiling through the window in the back of the bus as it drove away.

Alby did not steal for the lucrative monetary benefits. He was a trust fund baby with investments he didn't even know about, set up by his now deceased parents. He just went to the bank, made large withdrawals, and the money was ALWAYS there, in abundance. He let the accountants worry about the dirty details and book balancing. But instead, Alby stole for the attention. Being the child of corporate elites, he couldn't earn mommy's and daddy's affection. "Earn." That about sums it up. If it didn't bring in a profit, his parents had little to no use for it. Maybe if Alby wrapped himself in ticker tape, they would notice him hovering yearningly at their feet as they sat in their home office on the phone making multimillion-dollar deals before breakfast was served. How ironic they would even name him Alby, derived from Albion Venture Capital Trust, the leading investment company listed on the London Stock Exchange. Especially since they often opted out of quality time with sweet Alby in exchange for social drinks with the stock market's "Who's Who." Additionally, being shorter than everyone else in his grade, and sometimes the preceding grade, he was often overlooked or completely ignored by his classmates. He was never picked to be on the intramural sports team. His dwarfish size did not translate to great athleticism.

Once outside, Alby shields his eyes from the morning sun, a light he's not accustomed to after 20 hours spent within the castle walls lit with only primitive fluorescent bulbs and portable rechargeable lanterns where wiring was impermissible. He mosies his way to his usual spot along the fence line all the while mussing the thick, blond tuft of curly hair on his head as the other inmates make their way to the basketball courts and soccer fields. Alby knew he wouldn't be asked to join. He just stood there conspicuously inconspicuous.

Alby looks upward towards the watchtower where Jim Leer is getting into position. Each inmate is assigned a job at the work camp: librarian, cook, laundry detail, cattle-hand, gardener, etc. Jim was appointed "town crier" because of his loud, booming voice. Jim was incarcerated for ID theft. He was a street performer, mesmerizing passer-byers with his effortlessly powerful singing, belting out sounds that matched his 6'5" frame. While audiences gathered around, his cohorts unscrupulously stole credit card information via cleverly concealed RF ID scanners. After the people dispersed, Jim and his buddies went on shopping sprees, mainly buying priceless memorabilia from their favorite 80's rock bands. Their capers were all compromised because of Jim's big ego who would sing of his escapades on YouTube videos that went viral, especially within the law enforcement circles.

Once in place, Jim turns east to the basin mountains which helps reverberate his message throughout the camp. "Today's lunch will be chili con carne", Jim announces. "Chili con carne?", the inmates balked. "What is chili con carne?" They were used to traditional Scottish "scan", the slang word for meal, being served on a daily basis. Meals such as neep and tatties (turnips and potatoes), bangers and mash (potatoes made with lots of butter and milk and sausages) and Haggis. Oh Haggis, the national dish of Scotland. Made from sheep's liver, lungs, and heart, minced with spices, salt, onions, and oats cooked inside the sheep's own stomach. The smell of it cooking would make any of these hardened criminals, long for the days as a child watching anxiously as their maw prepare it for the family. These dishes would have to be put on hold since the former prison chef just recently fell ill. "Ill" was the mild term the warden would use to describe less than treatable conditions, such as getting shanked in the shower. In the meantime, the role of chef would fall upon Felipe Matamoros, a Spanish immigrant spending time as a "guest of the prison" for overstaying a student VISA. Scottish courts became increasingly creative in their sentencing of non-violent criminals. Felipe was transferred to Dyce to serve out his punishment while awaiting a follow-up hearing. That was two years ago. Unfortunately, Felipe only knew how to cook two dishes, chili and chili con carne. In addition to making the announcements, Jim would also serve as prison entertainment (No, not that type of entertainment. It's not that kind of fanfic). He used his background in street performance to put on shows for the camp. However, Jim would only sing top hits from the 1980s, the era when the rock band Queen topped the charts. He knew all the Queen cover songs; he had them all down, Save Me, I Want It All, Under Pressure, Another One Bites the Dust, and I Want to Break Free (for some reason, a work camp favorite).

When the inmates' hour of exercise and entertainment were up, then it was off to their assigned jobs for 3 hours of labor. Alby worked in the stables, primarily shoveling cow manure; collecting it to be dried out and used as cheap fuel for the furnaces. Once the stables were cleaned, Alby would assist with milking the cows (Cow's milk is what made the bangers and mash such a hit at dinner time.) On occasion, he would also help the local veterinarian tend to the expecting mothers. On this day, Alby skips out on the shoveling and heads straight for the stalls where the pregnant cows were kept. He walks down the middle row ignoring the other cows, some grazing on hay, some sleeping, some peering through the fence to see who had come to pay them a visit. Alby is not interested in the other cows. He is only there to see Astrid. Astrid, a Scandinavian name that means divine strength, was a 10-year-old cow that had borne many a calf at the workcamp. Some of the calves were raised to give milk, some were sold at auction and the income used to fund the prison and some were used for meat (you have to get the meat for sausage from somewhere for your bangers and mash). Alby kneels at the entrance of her stall and reaches in his hand to pet Astrid. Astrid raises her head, recognizing Alby from his many, many, many visits over the last nine months. He looks her over noting how much bigger she had gotten since he last saw her. To Alby, she was a beautiful creature. He knows this is the last time she'll give birth. Alby strokes the top of Astrid's head and says, "One day I'll deliver you, and you'll deliver me."

"Get on the boat, Monk!', Sharona persists as the line of passengers waiting to board the ship grows increasingly longer behind them. Monk looks down over the railing at the gap between the dock and the boat. "But I can't swim", Monk rebuts. "That's why they conveniently provided you a boat, so you don't have to swim", Sharona annoyedly remarks. Monk takes one small step on the gangplank and quickly back off again, on again, off again. The passengers with their personal effects begin to look at one another in bewilderment. Some set their bags down realizing this may take a while. Light murmuring turns to louder complaints as one older gentlemen shouts, "I'm on this cruise for my 80th birthday. I don't want to be still standing in this line on my 81st."

"Has anyone ever fallen overboard on one of these trips?" Monk asks. "No" huffs Sharona, "but some have probably been pushed off" she mutters under her breath. "What?" "Nothing Monk. Let's just get on the ship." "Are there enough life vests for everyone?", Monk asks the cruise director as he greets oncoming passengers. "You know, just in case." Monk makes a gesture with her hand to signify the boat capsizing and sinking. "Don't you worry, ma'am. We have plenty of life jackets, plus extra. You know, just in case", passively mocking Monk. Monk takes a step as if to board the ship and then turns back sharply to the director. "Could I have one of those extra vests? Since you do have extras." Sharona hurries Monk across the gangplank on board the Norwegian cruise liner that is setting sail for a 7-day trip to Scotland. This is the first vacation Detective Audreanna Monk has taken in years. Detective Monk, more accurately "former" detective Monk, served on the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) until her husband was murdered. After that fateful day, she would never be the same. Compulsive behaviors that once made her such an insightful and intuitive detective have become debilitating. Fear overtook her, making her unsuited for her job on the force. She now serves as a private consultant for the SFPD on special cases that require her unique perspective. Sharona Fleming, her nurse/assistant, is with her to help make sure Monk relaxes, a task easier said than done.

Newly added LEDs atop the outer castle walls flash signaling approaching visitors, a feature that would have been extremely useful to the Scottish king before Great Britain's invasion in the 17th century. The white van slows as it nears the west gate. The driver hands the guard their credentials who scrutinize them before peeking his head inside the cab to ensure there was but the single occupant driver. "Come on through," he says as he waves the vehicle on. Once inside, Katherine Headridge, the local cattle veterinarian, pulls into the visitor parking area and steps out of her medical van. She looks back in time to see the fortified gates close. She thinks to herself, "Only one way in, only one way out."

She's met by the prison warden, Max Brewster, who got this dismal assignment by trying to kiss up to his superiors (after kissing, and so much more, several of his superior's wives). "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit Miss Headridge? You weren't on today's visitor schedule," Max asks looking down at the clipboard held out in front of him by an assisting guard. "Just checking on some of the first-calf heifers. Seeing how they are coming along and making sure there aren't any complications," she answers. "Complications, huh?" Max looks back at his clipboard, looks Katherine up and down then turns to the guard. "Escort her to the stables," he directs him. "Let me grab my medical bag," Katherine says as she heads back to her van. She can feel Max's eyes wandering all over her as she walks away. She's had already had her first and last unprofessional encounter with him.

Max had once brought her to his office to "sign some paperwork" she needed to begin her tenure as chief veterinarian at Dyce. While in the office, Max made several advances towards her and even attempted to kiss her. She pushed him away, reached in her medical bag, and pulled out her Gallagher AHP2 mini cattle prod; Gal Pal she called it. After explicitly (and with leg-crossing detail) telling him what she would do with it if he touched her again, their working relationship was very well clarified. It's amazing how the threat of 1,500 volts to the nether regions can keep unwanted office romances from developing.

As they approach the stables, Katherine can hear the gentle lowing of the mother cows. Katherine looks ahead, making glances towards the neighboring buildings. "I've got it from here," Katherine tells the guard, who's happy to leave her to her business. The smell of the manure piles in the noonday sun was hitting him like a ton of bricks. The stable door was partially open. Probably one of the farm hands rushing out to get to chow after giving the cattle their midday feeding. It was first come, first serve in the camp cafeteria. There's nothing worse than showing up late and getting the bottom of the pan food scrapings and remaining hard corner edges after everyone else has had their fill. Katherine steps through the gate and makes her way down the semi-darkened corridor. The high noon sun casts its rays directly overhead onto the roof which allowed only small breaks of light through its panels. Not that she needed the light to navigate her way. She knew exactly where she was headed. As she passed in and out of the streaks of sunlight, the sun danced on her sunburned face. She could feel the intermittent bursts of warmth, but not even the solar system's brightest star could compare to the current warmth burning in her heart. Katherine stands at the entrance to the last stall, peering in. "There you are girl," she says to Astrid. At first glance, she could already tell Astrid was almost ready to give birth. She kneels beside the resting mother who was quite obliged not to get up. Katherine removes a stethoscope from the myriad of veterinary supplies she brought with her. She places one hand on the bridge of Astrid's nose while checking her heartbeat with the other. "There, there now," Katherine assures her. "Everything is going to be okay. No one is going to…" Her words are cut short as a hand reaches around from behind her and covers her mouth. "Gotcha!" the voice whispers in her ear. A quick elbow to the gut and Katherine was free and automatically reaching for her Gal Pal. She turns to see Alby hunched over, half in pain, half from laughing so hard. "You should have seen your face," Alby laughed. "It would have been funnier if I had zapped your incarcerated butt," Katherine retorted. Alby notices the hot pink taser she's holding, armed and ready. She gives a few quick pulls of the trigger. Sparks arc from the prongs producing a repetitive clicking sound. This is normally the last sound cows hear before being corralled into the pins leading to the abattoir (slaughterhouse is such an ugly word, accurate, but ugly).

"What took you so long?" Alby asks. "Had to get past 'Handsy' Brewster," she replied, "but I'm here now." Immediately there's a flurry of grabbing and kissing. Alby and Katherine roll around in the hay barely able to contain their passion for one another. "We can't, not now, not here," Katherine breathes out heavily. "Soon we'll be together," she adds. "Is everything ready," Alby asks, still trying to compose himself after their brief thrall. "Almost," Karen assures him. "In a few more days, it will be just you and me sailing miles away from this godforsaken island." Alby takes Karen by the hand. He's not used to this type of affection, but it just feels right. Katherine looks at her watch. "I better go," she sighs. "I told Brewster I was just doing a quick check on the girls here. I don't want him getting suspicious and sending one of his henchmen to check up on me." Katherine brushes herself off and pulls the strands of hay from her hair. She gets several yards away before Alby calls out. "Wait," he cries as he runs after her. He pulls up an old milk bucket, turns it over and steps on top so that he is eye to eye with Katherine. They engage in one last kiss. "Yeah," he thinks to himself. "This just feels right."

Monk and Sharona make it to their adjoining cabins. Sharona hands Monk her cabin key. The number 307 is embossed on the bronze face of the antique looking key. "I'd really like to get settled in and relax a while. I'm right next door if you need me," she assures Monk. As Sharona heads to her room, she turns her head and speaking over her shoulder adds, "Monk, please don't 'need me' for at least an hour." Monk looks at the key. "Wait, wait," she cries. "You're in 308?" "Yes," Sharona responds hesitantly. "Can we…switch rooms," Monk asks. "Switch room! Why?" Sharona exclaims. "You have the even number. Mine is odd; even is better. You know…because it's even." Sharona rolls her eyes and sighs in disbelief. "The rooms are exactly the same, Monk. One bed, two nightstands, a desk with a lamp." "I know," Monk responds "but, it's even." Sharona marches past Monk switching keys midstride and disappears behind door 307, slamming it in the process. Monk stands there as other guests pass her in the hall, having seen and heard the last of their conversation. Monk smiles at them awkwardly. "She's okay. She doesn't like ships that much."


	3. with Chapter 3

Running head: MONK BOVINIAN RHAPSODY 12

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Thomas Edmonds

ENGL-211G

Rachael Krygsman

November 1, 2018

Monk and the Bovinian Rhapsody

Prisoners shuffle down the corridor leading from their cells to the outer courtyard where they are allowed an hour of exercise. "Eyes forward, mouths shut" the escorting guards remind them, sometimes with a little physical reinforcement. Dyce, a Scottish castle turned adult prison work camp now houses approximately 300 first time and repeat offenders. One such offender is Alby Murkoff, a petty thief who escalated to bigger and more extravagant heists. Alby used his baby face and diminutive stature to his advantage. He once dressed up like a kid on a field trip to rob the National Museum of Scotland. He stole three medieval coins (dated 1555, 1601, and 1604) from the Kingdom of the Scots gallery. When the alarms triggered, Alby walked out with a group of 4th graders during the evacuation. Flustered teachers and chaperones hurried children, Alby included, onto buses. Alby rode right out of the crime scene undetected, smiling through the window in the back of the bus as it drove away.

Alby did not steal for the lucrative monetary benefits. He was a trust fund baby with investments he didn't even know about, set up by his now deceased parents. He just went to the bank, made large withdrawals, and the money was ALWAYS there, in abundance. He let the accountants worry about the dirty details and book balancing. But instead, Alby stole for the attention. Being the child of corporate elites, he couldn't earn mommy's and daddy's affection. "Earn." That about sums it up. If it didn't bring in a profit, his parents had little to no use for it. Maybe if Alby wrapped himself in ticker tape, they would notice him hovering yearningly at their feet as they sat in their home office on the phone making multimillion-dollar deals before breakfast was served. How ironic they would even name him Alby, derived from Albion Venture Capital Trust, the leading investment company listed on the London Stock Exchange. Especially since they often opted out of quality time with sweet Alby in exchange for social drinks with the stock market's "Who's Who." Additionally, being shorter than everyone else in his grade, and sometimes the preceding grade, he was often overlooked or completely ignored by his classmates. He was never picked to be on the intramural sports team. His dwarfish size did not translate to great athleticism.

Once outside, Alby shields his eyes from the morning sun, a light he's not accustomed to after 20 hours spent within the castle walls lit with only primitive fluorescent bulbs and portable rechargeable lanterns where wiring was impermissible. He mosies his way to his usual spot along the fence line all the while mussing the thick, blond tuft of curly hair on his head as the other inmates make their way to the basketball courts and soccer fields. Alby knew he wouldn't be asked to join. He just stood there conspicuously inconspicuous.

Alby looks upward towards the watchtower where Jim Leer is getting into position. Each inmate is assigned a job at the work camp: librarian, cook, laundry detail, cattle-hand, gardener, etc. Jim was appointed "town crier" because of his loud, booming voice. Jim was incarcerated for ID theft. He was a street performer, mesmerizing passer-byers with his effortlessly powerful singing, belting out sounds that matched his 6'5" frame. While audiences gathered around, his cohorts unscrupulously stole credit card information via cleverly concealed RF ID scanners. After the people dispersed, Jim and his buddies went on shopping sprees, mainly buying priceless memorabilia from their favorite 80's rock bands. Their capers were all compromised because of Jim's big ego who would sing of his escapades on YouTube videos that went viral, especially within the law enforcement circles.

Once in place, Jim turns east to the basin mountains which helps reverberate his message throughout the camp. "Today's lunch will be chili con carne", Jim announces. "Chili con carne?", the inmates balked. "What is chili con carne?" They were used to traditional Scottish "scan", the slang word for meal, being served on a daily basis. Meals such as neep and tatties (turnips and potatoes), bangers and mash (potatoes made with lots of butter and milk and sausages) and Haggis. Oh Haggis, the national dish of Scotland. Made from sheep's liver, lungs, and heart, minced with spices, salt, onions, and oats cooked inside the sheep's own stomach. The smell of it cooking would make any of these hardened criminals, long for the days as a child watching anxiously as their maw prepare it for the family. These dishes would have to be put on hold since the former prison chef just recently fell ill. "Ill" was the mild term the warden would use to describe less than treatable conditions, such as getting shanked in the shower. In the meantime, the role of chef would fall upon Felipe Matamoros, a Spanish immigrant spending time as a "guest of the prison" for overstaying a student VISA. Scottish courts became increasingly creative in their sentencing of non-violent criminals. Felipe was transferred to Dyce to serve out his punishment while awaiting a follow-up hearing. That was two years ago. Unfortunately, Felipe only knew how to cook two dishes, chili and chili con carne.

In addition to making the announcements, Jim would also serve as prison entertainment (No, not that type of entertainment. It's not that kind of fanfic). He used his background in street performance to put on shows for the camp. However, Jim would _only_ sing top hits from the 1980s, the era when the rock band Queen topped the charts. He knew all the Queen cover songs; he had them all down, Save Me, I Want It All, Under Pressure, Another One Bites the Dust, and I Want to Break Free (for some reason, a work camp favorite).

When the inmates' hour of exercise and entertainment were up, then it was off to their assigned jobs for 3 hours of labor. Alby worked in the stables, primarily shoveling cow manure; collecting it to be dried out and used as cheap fuel for the furnaces. Once the stables were cleaned, Alby would assist with milking the cows (cow's milk is what made the bangers and mash such a hit at dinner time.) On occasion, he would also help the local veterinarian tend to the expecting mothers. On this day, Alby skips out on the shoveling and heads straight for the stalls where the pregnant cows were kept. He walks down the middle row ignoring the other cows, some grazing on hay, some sleeping, some peering through the fence to see who had come to pay them a visit. Alby is not interested in the other cows. He is only there to see Astrid. Astrid, a Scandinavian name that means divine strength, was a 10-year-old cow that had borne many a calf at the workcamp. Some of the calves were raised to give milk, some were sold at auction and the income used to fund the prison and some were used for meat (you have to get the meat for sausage from somewhere for your bangers and mash). Alby kneels at the entrance of her stall and reaches his hand in to pet Astrid. Astrid raises her head, recognizing Alby from his many, many, many visits over the last nine months. He looks her over noting how much bigger she had gotten since he last saw her. To Alby, she was a beautiful creature. He knows this is the last time she'll give birth. Alby strokes the top of Astrid's head and says, _"One day I'll deliver you, and you'll deliver me."_

"Get on the boat, Monk!', Sharona persists as the line of passengers waiting to board the ship grows increasingly longer behind them. Monk looks down over the railing at the gap between the dock and the boat. "But I can't swim", Monk rebuts. "That's why they conveniently provided you a boat, so you don't have to swim", Sharona annoyedly remarks. Monk takes one small step on the gangplank and quickly back off again, on again, off again. The passengers with their personal effects begin to look at one another in bewilderment. Some set their bags down realizing this may take a while. Light murmuring turns to louder complaints as one older gentleman shouts, "I'm on this cruise for my 80th birthday. I don't want to be still standing in this line on my 81st."

"Has anyone ever fallen overboard on one of these trips?" Monk asks. "No," huffs Sharona, "but some have probably been pushed off" she mutters under her breath. "What?" "Nothing Monk. Let's just get on the ship." "Are there enough life vests for everyone?" Monk asks the cruise director as he greets oncoming passengers. "You know, just in case." Monk makes a gesture with her hand to signify the boat capsizing and sinking. "Don't you worry, ma'am. We have plenty of life jackets, plus extra. You know, just in case", passively mocking Monk. Monk takes a step as if to board the ship and then turns back sharply to the director. "Could I have one of those _extra_ vests? Since you do have them." Sharona hurries Monk across the gangplank on board the Norwegian cruise liner that is setting sail for a 7-day trip to Scotland. This is the first vacation Detective Audreanna Monk has taken in years. Detective Monk, more accurately "former" detective Monk, served on the San Francisco Police Department (SFPD) until her husband was murdered. After that fateful day, she would never be the same. Compulsive behaviors that once made her such an insightful and intuitive detective have become debilitating. Fear overtook her, making her unsuited for her job on the force. She now serves as a private consultant for the SFPD on special cases that require her unique perspective. Sharona Fleming, her nurse/assistant, is with her to help make sure Monk relaxes, a task easier said than done.

Newly added LEDs atop the outer castle walls flash signaling approaching visitors, a feature that would have been extremely useful to the Scottish king before Great Britain's invasion in the 17th century. The white van slows as it nears the west gate. The driver hands the guard their credentials who scrutinize them before peeking his head inside the cab to ensure there was but the single occupant driver. "Come on through," he says as he waves the vehicle on. Once inside, Katherine Headridge, the local cattle veterinarian, pulls into the visitor parking area and steps out of her medical van. She looks back in time to see the fortified gates close. She thinks to herself, "Only one way in, only one way out."

She's met by the prison warden, Max Brewster, who got this dismal assignment by trying to kiss up to his superiors (after kissing, and so much more, several of his superior's wives). "To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit Miss Headridge? You weren't on today's visitor schedule," Max asks looking down at the clipboard held out in front of him by an assisting guard. "Just checking on some of the first-calf heifers. Seeing how they are coming along and making sure there aren't any complications," she answers. "Complications, huh?" Max looks back at his clipboard, looks Katherine up and down then turns to the guard. "Escort her to the stables," he directs him. "Let me grab my medical bag," Katherine says as she heads back to her van. She can feel Max's eyes wandering all over her as she walks away. She's had already had her first and last unprofessional encounter with him.

Max had once brought her to his office to "sign some paperwork" she needed to begin her tenure as chief veterinarian at Dyce. While in the office, Max made several advances towards her and even attempted to kiss her. She pushed him away, reached in her medical bag, and pulled out her Gallagher AHP2 mini cattle prod; Gal Pal she called it. After explicitly (and with leg-crossing detail) telling him what she would do with it if he touched her again, their working relationship was very well clarified. It's amazing how the threat of 1,500 volts to the nether regions can keep unwanted office romances from developing.

As they approach the stables, Katherine can hear the gentle lowing of the mother cows. Katherine looks ahead, making glances towards the neighboring buildings. "I've got it from here," Katherine tells the guard, who's happy to leave her to her business. The smell of the manure piles in the noonday sun was hitting him like a ton of bricks. The stable door was partially open. Probably one of the farm hands rushing out to get to chow after giving the cattle their midday feeding. It was first come, first serve in the camp cafeteria. There's nothing worse than showing up late and getting the bottom of the pan food scrapings and remaining hard corner edges after everyone else has had their fill. Katherine steps through the gate and makes her way down the semi-darkened corridor. The high noon sun casts its rays directly overhead onto the roof which allowed only small breaks of light through its panels. Not that she needed the light to navigate her way. She knew exactly where she was headed. As she passed in and out of the streaks of sunlight, the sun danced on her sunburned face. She could feel the intermittent bursts of warmth, but not even the solar system's brightest star could compare to the current warmth burning in her heart. Katherine stands at the entrance to the last stall, peering in. "There you are girl," she says to Astrid. At first glance, she could already tell Astrid was almost ready to give birth. She kneels beside the resting mother who was quite obliged not to get up. Katherine removes a stethoscope from the myriad of veterinary supplies she brought with her. She places one hand on the bridge of Astrid's nose while checking her heartbeat with the other. "There, there now," Katherine assures her. "Everything is going to be okay. No one is going to…" Her words are cut short as a hand reaches around from behind her and covers her mouth. "Gotcha!" the voice whispers in her ear. A quick elbow to the gut and Katherine was free and automatically reaching for her Gal Pal. She turns to see Alby hunched over, half in pain, half from laughing so hard. "You should have seen your face," Alby laughed. "It would have been funnier if I had zapped your incarcerated butt," Katherine retorted. Alby notices the hot pink taser she's holding, armed and ready. She gives a few quick pulls of the trigger. Sparks arc from the prongs producing a repetitive clicking sound. This is normally the last sound cows hear before being corralled into the pins leading to the abattoir (slaughterhouse is such an ugly word, accurate, but ugly).

"What took you so long?" Alby asks. "Had to get past 'Handsy' Brewster," she replied, "but I'm here now." Immediately there's a flurry of grabbing and kissing. Alby and Katherine roll around in the hay barely able to contain their passion for one another. "We can't, not now, not here," Katherine breathes out heavily. "Soon we'll be together," she adds. "Is everything ready," Alby asks, still trying to compose himself after their brief thrall. "Almost," Karen assures him. "In a few more days, it will be just you and me sailing miles away from this godforsaken island." Alby takes Karen by the hand. He's not used to this type of affection, but it just feels right. Katherine looks at her watch. "I better go," she sighs. "I told Brewster I was just doing a quick check on the girls here. I don't want him getting suspicious and sending one of his henchmen to check up on me." Katherine brushes herself off and pulls the strands of hay from her hair. She gets several yards away before Alby calls out. "Wait," he cries as he runs after her. He pulls up an old milk bucket, turns it over and steps on top so that he is eye to eye with Katherine. They engage in one last kiss. "Yeah," he thinks to himself. "This just feels right."

Monk and Sharona make it to their adjoining cabins. Sharona hands Monk her cabin key. The number 307 is embossed on the bronze face of the antique looking key. "I'd really like to get settled in and relax a while. I'm right next door if you need me," she assures Monk. As Sharona heads to her room, she turns her head and speaking over her shoulder adds, "Monk, please don't 'need me' for at least an hour." Monk looks at the key. "Wait, wait," she cries. "You're in 308?" "Yes," Sharona responds hesitantly. "Can we…switch rooms," Monk asks. "Switch room! Why?" Sharona exclaims. "You have the even number. Mine is odd; even is better. You know…because it's even." Sharona rolls her eyes and sighs in disbelief. "The rooms are exactly the same, Monk. One bed, two nightstands, a desk with a lamp." "I know," Monk responds "but, it's even." Sharona marches past Monk switching keys midstride and disappears behind door 307, slamming it in the process. Monk stands there as other guests pass her in the hall, having seen and heard the last of their conversation. Monk smiles at them awkwardly. "She's okay. She doesn't like ships that much."

An hour later, Monk finds herself wandering the ship's vast hallways and corridors. Some halls leading to shops and restaurants, some to casinos and other entertainment venues. Monk stands halted at the door marked Promenade Deck. Minutes that feel like hours pass as she tries to convince herself it's okay to leave the safe confines of the ship's interior and venture out onto the deck. (Unfortunately, her bizarre reasoning is if the outside of the boat sinks so will the inside. So, what the heck. Let's go!). She pushes the door open as the wind and Atlantic Sea's salt air welcome her. Monk shuffles out, her back firmly against the wall. Passengers peer oddly back at her as they pass. Monk can see the deck railing a few dozen feet away. It matters well be a few hundred. She could never reach it; she could never look down into the vast emptiness of the ocean. "No. You've got to try," she says to herself. She stretches one hand out while keeping the other hand on the wall. Little by little see inches out, like a tightrope walker without a net. The railing gets closer and closer and soon she is there, gripping it with all her might. The waves below crash against the side of the ship causing her to reel back. She pulls out a plastic bag containing the handkerchief of her late husband, Travis. He always carried one in his shirt pocket. She could still smell his scent and the light fragrance of his cologne. This secret fetish helps her in times of fear knowing, in a way, Travis is still with her. All of a sudden, she feels the familiar touch of a man's hand upon hers. "Hello Audrie," he says, "you finally did it. You took a vacation." "Is that what this is called?" Monk questions, "I thought it was a game of what will kill me first. My top three guesses are either the germs (they're everywhere), the milk they put out during the breakfast buffet or a glacier. Yes, I know there hasn't been a glacier in Scotland in 400 years, but you never know. It is also possible that it will be a combination of the three, but I'm still working out the probability index." Her husband, Travis, smiles gently at her. That's all it ever took. One look from him and Audreanna felt secure, her mind set at ease. The sound of children's laughter breaks the moment. Monk looks around; she's all alone. A group of kids, ranging from six to twelve years old, follow their youth activities coordinator. Monk notices one child sitting alone on a bench, crying. She approaches the little girl who's around 7 years old. Monk asks, "What's your name?" "Melody," the girl replies. "Are you lost?" She nods her head, still looking down at the colorful toy unicorn in her hand. Monk can tell she's scared. "You know what I do when I lose something? I close my eyes and wish very hard to find it again. You want to try?" The girl lifts her head, her big brown eyes releasing the last few drops of tears. Monk takes the girls into her and says, "Close your eyes. Think of your mommy and daddy and wish very hard they were here with you." Melody squeezes her eyes shut. Monk could almost feel the intensity of her wish. "Melody!" a woman's voice calls from behind them. Monk looks over her shoulder and sees a woman running towards them. "Mommy!" Melody cries. She releases Monks hands and races towards the woman. Monk looks on as they embrace and then back down at her hands, the hands that once held the child. She would be about Melody's age now. "I was so worried about you," her mother cries. "I was ok. The nice lady told me if I wish very hard, I would find you again and I did." The mom looks over to Monk and mouths the words "thank you." Monk smiles. As they turn to leave, Melody breaks free from her mother's hand and runs back to Monk, giving her an amazing hug. Monk, still kneeling, is frozen. Her fear of personal embrace wants to kick in, but something more powerful takes control. She melts into the little girls embrace and wraps her arms around her. "I hope you find whatever you lost," Melody whispers in Monk's ear then quickly returns to her mom. Monk stands in time to see Sharona approaching from the other side of the deck. "What was that all about?" she asks. "Just helping someone find what they were looking for," Monk replies watching as Melody and her mom fade into the crowd of people that have gathered for the afternoon's on-deck entertainment. "Well, I've got an idea," says Sharona, "how about _you_ help _us_ find that Mediterranean buffet. I'm starving."


End file.
